


as long as the sun and the moon are above

by pallidus



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Warlord!Geralt, does it count as a royalty au if jaskier already has a title?, picking and choosing from canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallidus/pseuds/pallidus
Summary: Nobles rarely marry for love. Jaskier marries the Warlord of the North to protect his sisters.It goes better than he expected.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 514
Kudos: 1578





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 
  * Inspired by [Vaster Than Empires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/692609) by [Ayezur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayezur/pseuds/Ayezur). 



> This was directly inspired by inexplicafic’s stupendous [Accidental Warlord series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661) and also [Vaster than Empires](http://archiveofourown.org/works/692609) by ayezur. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right? Right? Go read those instead.
> 
> Title taken from “A Song On The End Of The World”, by Czesław Miłosz.

The wedding took place under the sky and trees. It was sunset, in spring. New life teemed around them in a riotous explosion of flowers and growth and Jaskier was alone in a glen, save for a druid and his betrothed.

It would have been romantic, had Jaskier not been sold to the Warlord of the North for his family’s protection and his country’s continued survival.

The Warlord and his witcher army had conquered most of the north in the past decade. More then men, witchers had once limited themselves to beasts and monsters of the inhuman kind. At some point, they decided it would be more expedient to take on those who were human as well. And one by one, the kingdoms of the north fell.

The druid had a kind face. Jaskier spoke Elder passably well, could follow much of the ceremony. He wasn’t sure about his betrothed, but it was safer to keep his eyes focused on where his right hand was tied ceremonially to the Warlord’s left, fingers intertwined. Jaskier breathed slowly and carefully and was not going to make a fuss.

If he made a fuss, the Warlord might get angry. Might renegotiate. Might ask for another, more biddable bride. Someone like his younger sisters, Essi or Priscilla or Shani. They were too young for marriage, but who knew what kind of delicate morsels the Warlord hungered for?

Nilfgaard had not taken the growing empire of the north quietly. The Emperor was greedy and sought dominion over the whole continent; Jaskier had seen the intelligence reports from their southern spies. Cintra and Sodden and Brugge had fallen. The dryads of Brokilion Forest had swallowed up every advance, and the swamps of Velen seemed too soggy for the Eternal Flame, but the writing was on the wall. The continent was going to be divided up between one empire or another; it was merely a matter of time.

The King of Redania had looked at his maps and looked at what had happened to the Lioness of Cintra and sent off an offer of alliance to the Warlord of the North. Somehow, their messenger hadn’t been laughed out of the witcher’s court.

The druid paused in his recitation. Jaskier watched as the man waved his hands over the bound pair. He’d only read about handfastings; weddings were full of pomp and circumstance and politics in Redania.

Alliances of all kinds were traditionally sealed with marriages in Redania.

Redania had a surprisingly small royal family. It had been an unlucky few years even before the sweating sickness had carried off nearly the whole court while he was away at Oxenfurt University. And so, when the fighting had come to their doorstep and parley had been sent to the Warlord, there had only been a few options left. The Crown Prince, Radovid. His little sisters. And Jaskier himself.

In the end, there was only one acceptable suit.

Jaskier breathed in and out. He had to stay calm. Witchers had keen senses and could smell fear. If he controlled his breathing, he could control his reactions. He was doing this for sweet Essi. For little Priscilla, for darling Shani. He squared his shoulders and would not fear.

The ceremony was coming to an end. The druid passed the Warlord a silver cup filled with wine. The Warlord turned to him, wolf eyes gleaming in the dying light.

“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” The Warlord’s voice was deep and soft as he raised the cup to Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier met his gaze. He was doing this for Essi. For Priscilla. For Shani. He drank. The wine was a strong Evreluce but Jaskier could barely taste it. He took the cup from the Warlord and raised it to the witcher’s lips.

“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine,” Jaskier said without hesitation.

The Warlord drank. His gold eyes never left Jaskier’s face, even as the ceremony concluded.

The druid smiled.

It was done.

***

Of course, there was still a wedding dinner to attend.

Finding a suitable venue for a horde of witchers and the creme of the Redanian elite had been something of a sticking point during the negotiations. Neither party wanted to host the other. The witchers did not let outsiders into their mountain stronghold. Nor did King Vestibor want the Warlord of the North in his capital city. (Indeed, a wedding party’s worth of witchers had taken Ban Gleán with hardly any effort at all.) His late grandfather’s estate just outside the Tretogar, complete with woods and large ballroom, had been a decent compromise.

The walk back to the estate was quiet. Jaskier spent more time trying not to trip over his feet in the growing darkness. Although it was unlikely he’d fall, given the Warlord’s gentle but implacable hold on his arm that kept him close.

They had remained silent throughout the walk. The guests had thrown cheers as they emerged from the forest and joined the party, which had spilled out of the ballroom and on to the patio. Admittedly, the cheers from the witchers were louder than those of the Redanian nobles, but Jaskier was too busy trying to keep his composure without meeting any of the pitying stares of the court.

Somewhere, a herald announced them. “Introducing Geralt, the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen, Warlord of the North! And his consort, Prince Julian Alfred Pancratz, the Duke of Oxenfurt!”

There were more cheers and shouts from the crowd as well-wishers started to greet the couple. The Warlord’s grip was unmoving and his blank scowl was enough to keep even the most enthusiastic of nobles away. The witchers in the crowd had no compunction about coming close to congratulate the pair.

Jaskier desperately tried to place names to faces. Redanian Secret Service had compiled a whole dossier on notable witchers while the negotiations were taking place, but it turned out that “yellow eyes, heavily scarred, silver medallion” was functionally useless for differentiating everyone who had come along in the Warlord’s party.

Only a few faces really stood out from the crowd. The first was the prince.

“Congratulations on your blessed matrimony, cousin.” Radovid nodded at them. “I’m sure your parents would have been so emotional on this day, had they lived to see it.”

His parents would have rather set the house on fire than see a witcher befoul it. Jaskier did not rise to the bait. Radovid was a prick and had been since they were children.

“I’m sure they would have, cousin.” Jaskier had spent years away from the court in Tretogar; it was easier to ignore Radovid these days. “It is important to remember absent family on days such as these.”

Radovid scowled for a second. His mother had run away with some petty vicomte from Toussaint eight years ago and refused to return to Redania for anything short of her son’s coronation.

“And what a day it is!” He smirked. “What a night! We’ve all heard about your exploits in Oxenfurt and Novigrad, cousin. I’m sure your new husband will be pleased to find you already broken in.”

The grip on his arm tightened imperceptibly.

Jaskier did not look at his husband. “No knowledge is wasted, cousin. For instance, I heard a lovely little ditty when I was in Novigrad about a dolphin with the most peculiar taste in fish.” His husband moved in tandem with Jaskier as he leaned in. “Perhaps I’ll ask the bards to play it later on.”

Radovid flushed red. Being crown prince was all fun and games until someone made a song about you kissing a dead grouper after a drunken night on the town. His cousin was really going to have to get better control over his emotions if he ever expected to stay on the throne. A thin skin was not going to stand him in good stead when the vultures started circling.

With this many people around, most of Radovid’s usual tactics for winning an argument were useless. It was hard to beat the stuffing out of your younger cousin when he was standing next to the Continent’s deadliest warrior who was also his new husband.

“Melitele’s blessings on your union, cousin.” Radovid smiled cruelly. “We‘ll miss you once you head to Kaer Morhen. I’ll make sure to take good care of the family while you’re gone.”

Jaskier froze.

“Oh yes, it’s been decided. Your little sisters certainly can’t stay on their own in that delightful pub you’ve been squatting in Novigrad, Julian! They’ll become a part of my household, once you’ve moved on to Kaer Morhen.”

He could barely hear over the pounding of his heart. Radovid had every right to bring his sisters into his own circle; with Jaskier off to the Kaer, Essi was second in line to the throne, Priscilla and Shani behind her. And with how badly the Redanian royal family had fared in the past few years, it would be hardly out of line for the crown prince to keep them close.

Fuck.

Radovid couldn’t be allowed to keep them. They’d be well treated until Radovid had his own heir, but none of them were suited for court. Jaskier was barely suited for court. Radovid and the rest of the nobility would chew them up and spit them out and their spirits would be broken.

“Congratulations again, Julian. We’ll miss you!” Radovid’s eyes held a malicious glee. “Do write us once you’ve made it to Kaedwen.”

Jaskier was left silent as his cousin bowed mockingly and drifted off into the crowd. The Warlord’s steady silence was a blessing in this moment.

More nobles came and went. Jaskier greeted them and accepted their felicitations with rote courtesy, trying not to break composure.

A witcher came to them. He was strikingly familiar to the Warlord; the only difference was in the dark coloring of his hair and the vicious scars across his face. Jaskier knew this one. He’d been a part of the negotiations, arguing on behalf of the Warlord. Eskel, the Warlord’s right hand man. Someone, possibly on a dare, had put a cheerful purple hat with feathers on his head. It was tilted at a jaunty angle and was rakishly fashionable. And it was perched on top of the Warlord’s second in command.

What the hell.

The Warlord shifted, attention locked on the other witcher. “Eskel.” A long pause. “Nice hat.”

Jaskier covertly studied his new husband’s face. The Warlord’s stern visage had softened around the eyes and mouth. It was like reading emotions from a particularly blank marble statue. From what he could tell, the Warlord was being genuine.

A smile dawned across Eskel’s face. Not even the scars could hide the handsome smile. “I figured I ought to dress up for your wedding, White Wolf!”

The two witchers cheerfully clasped forearms and thumped each other’s backs. It was the closest anyone had come to the Warlord all night, save for Jaskier, and _they’d_ been tied together on account of tradition rather than any kind of intimacy.

“Go on, introduce me to your blushing bridegroom.”

The Warlord went back to holding Jaskier’s arm, like he’d done all evening since the handfasting. “Husband, Eskel. Eskel, husband.”

“Well met, Eskel of Kaer Morhen.” Jaskier could do small talk. “I believe I saw you during the betrothal negotiations?”

“Aye, that was me. Lucky me, I get to do all the talking with nobles and the White Wolf gets the pretty husband.” Eskel smiled again.

“Hmmm.”

“I don’t hear any complaints from you, Wolf!” Eskel laughed. “I’m going to go find Lambert and make sure he hasn’t set anyone on fire yet.”

“Hmmm.”

Jaskier was going to have to learn to decode the Warlord’s hmmm’s if he ever wanted to actually converse with his new husband.

The parade of well-wishers continued. Jaskier smiled and spoke nothing of importance.

One of the sorceresses had deigned to supply witchlights for the evening. It threw everything into a soft, white glow. Even the Warlord looked softer, despite the solid black outfit of silk and leather.

The last group to congratulate the couple was, in Jaskier’s humble opinion, the best. There was a ruckus from across the room and then three girls collided with his midsection, one after another. Jaskier only stayed standing thanks to the Warlord’s steady arm.

“Julek! Julek! Julek!”

“Brother! You look so good! Look at my dress, isn’t it pretty? And I love these braids!”

“Julek, can we sit next to you at the dinner! Cousin Radovid says we have to stay at the table with the other Redanians, but I want to sit next to you!”

The bright chatter and cheerful grins cracked through his own reserve. Jaskier smiled fondly at his little sisters, doing his best to hug all three at once with his free arm.

“Oof, clearly someone’s been in the honey cakes already!” He said, grabbing a handkerchief from inside his formal doublet and wiping at Shani’s sticky face.

Shani tried to squirm away, but her sisters were right behind her and there was nowhere to go. “Zoltan said it was all right!”

“Of course he did, he thinks it’s funny to load you three up with sugar,” Jaskier wiped the last of the sweets away and tweaked Shani’s nose. “Priscilla, you are as lovely as a rose in that dress, did Mariam help you with your hair? Essi, I don’t know about dinner, we’ll have to ask my lord husband about the seating arrangements.”

Three sets of eyes swung round and stared pleadingly at the large brick wall he had pledged his life too. The Warlord was the terror of the North and had conquered kingdom after kingdom with ease, the monster behind every noble’s nightmares.

The Warlord was no match for his sisters’ puppy-dog eyes.

Jaskier watched with no little shock as the Warlord’s stern visage cracked into a gentle smile. “Your sisters may sit with us,” he said gruffly.

“Yay!” Shani cheered and wriggled with glee.

Essi smirked off into the crowd, pleased to get one over their cousin.

Priscilla tugged at Jaskier’s doublet. “Julek, when are we going to eat? I’m hungry.”

“Soon, sweet pea, soon. But first, I must introduce you, no?” Jaskier gathered his sisters close and faced the Warlord. Surely it meant nothing that he was putting himself bodily between the girls and his witcher husband. “My lord husband, may I introduce you to my sisters? Her Royal Highnesses Essi, Duchess of Roggeven; Priscilla, Duchess of Troy; and Shani, Duchess of Lettenhove.” He gestured to each of them in turn. “Girls, this is your new lord brother-in-law, Geralt, the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen, Warlord of the North.”

They all curtseyed with varying levels of ease and accuracy. Jaskier refused to feel embarrassed. Teaching his sister’s courtly graces had never been high on his priorities once he had taken over their care.

Shani curled into his chest once she had straightened up from her shaky curtesy. “Julek, that’s a lot of names. Do I have to call my lord brother-in-law all those things every time?” Her young voice carried across the party.

Jaskier could feel the eyes of the court upon them, a palpable weight. His eyes flickered over to the Warlord. “We all have lots of names, darling, it’s important to be polite first.”

He heard Pricilla scoff under her breath and then wheeze slightly as Essi almost certainly dug an elbow into her younger sister’s gut.

“Geralt.” The Warlord offered, almost awkwardly. “You may call me Geralt.”

Shani took a moment to study the Warlord, before nodding decisively and grabbing his other hand and swinging it gently. “I like the name Geralt, the cook had a tomcat back in Lettenhove named Gerry. We couldn’t bring him to Novigrad but there are a couple of cats at Rosemary and Thyme that I like. Do you like cats? I told Julek he could bring a cat when he moved to Kaer Wherever, but he said it wouldn’t be done, that sounds stupid. What’s the point of being made a prince if you can’t have a cat?”

Jaskier’s heart nearly stopped for a moment when Shani grabbed the Warlord’s hand; a dramatic hush fell over the party as the entire Redanian contingent froze with him. He could still hear the Witchers and the sorcerers and sorceresses making merry so the party wasn’t dead silent.

The Warlord looked down at the small red headed child hanging off his arm, chattering away about cats. “Hmm,” he hummed noncommittally.

Shani took that as encouragement and was off again. “I know, right? It’s so stupid, ever since Cousin Radovid called us back to Tretogar there has been nothing but rules and books and teachers and no one will play Gwent with me anymore. I miss playing with people other than Essi and Priscilla, they’re no fun since we all know each other’s deck. Do you play Gwent, Geralt?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good! We can play after dinner! I have a really good deck since Zoltan knows someone who knows someone who works for the artist who makes the cards. Zoltan knows everyone! Do you know Zoltan?”

“No.”

Jaskier looked at Essi, who was running a coin across her knuckles and determinedly not looking at him, and Priscilla, who was pretending to fix her braids.

“Exactly how many honey cakes did Zoltan feed her again?” He asked with a sigh, not expecting a response.

Shani continued to talk at the Warlord, who was putting up with everything remarkably well for a mutated, monster-hunting man-killer. She certainly didn’t seem to mind the short, monosyllabic responses he gave.

A servant in Redanian livery caught his eye and motioned towards the feasting hall discretely.

“Shani, darling, you’ll have time to talk to my lord husband at dinner,” Jaskier said. “Perhaps we can get some real food in you before you dance into all the walls and perhaps the ceiling as well.”

It had been a while since his last state dinner; he’d still been a lowly viscount and barely worth inviting when Cousin Dariusz had married a Temarian countess. Jaskier was pretty certain that the couple of honor did not enter with a gaggle of younger siblings hanging off of them. It was a breach of tradition, but not serious enough for any courtier to bother the Warlord of the North over, not when he was quietly and politely listening to a small child high on a sugar rush expound on her favorite Gwent cards.

“- and Olgierd von Everec is great because it’s for a neutral deck but it also does ranged and close-combat attack and then there’s a special morale boost! Plus, he has red hair, which is the best color, _obviously_.”

Either someone had managed to stuff three extra chairs into the head table while all this was going on, or the three dignitaries who had meant to sit there had shuffled off to lower seats in the sheer chaos of nearly five hundred men, women, and witchers seating themselves for dinner.

Shani, bless her excitable little heart, had tried to sit in between Jaskier and the Warlord before he intervened. “Ah, sweetheart, sit next to Essi, please. I’d like to sit next to my lord husband for our first meal.” He kissed the top of her head and forcibly passed her on to Essi, who squashed the redhead into the spare chair with more enthusiasm than grace.

The hall was full. The sound was strictly incredible. Jaskier had no idea how the Warlord was managing it; supposedly, witchers had advanced senses.

Eskel settled in at the table at the Warlord’s right hand along with a few other witchers with wolf medallions, along with a stunningly gorgeous woman in a black dress that Jaskier would bet was Yennefer of Vengerburg. They were some of the deadliest people on the continent. Even in their wedding finery (which mostly consisted of clean leather armor), they were heavily armed.

Meanwhile, Jaskier’s side was empty, save for his three younger sisters, who had already started playing dice games in plain view of the entire court. He was pretty sure they were gambling. Priscilla was winning.

Melitele preserve him.

There was another servant lingering in his line of sight, blatantly gesturing to the wine carafe he held in his hands.

Right. They were meant to kick off dinner with a toast.

Jaskier looked at the Warlord, who stared steadily back at him, gold eyes glinting in the candlelight. The longest string of words Jaskier had heard his new husband speak had been their wedding vows and he’d just repeated after the druid.

Yeah, this seemed like the kind of thing Jaskier was going to have to handle, now that he was married to the Warlord of the North.

He gently reached for the Warlord’s hand, telegraphing his movements. The Warlord let him take his left hand without hesitation.

“Shall we?” Jaskier asked, throwing him a polite smile.

The Warlord didn’t respond, but he did follow Jaskier’s lead and stood.

The hall leapt to their feet. When the Warlord stood, no one sat. Distantly, Jaskier noted that Essi and Priscilla had managed to drag Shani up in time. It was impressive how a room this full could be so hushed. Even separated at differing trestle tables, the Redanian nobles looks intimidated by all the witchers.

Jaskier took a deep breath, smiled, and tried his best to remember what courtesies his parents had attempted to beat into him as a child. It hadn’t seemed important at the time. Somewhere, his childhood tutors were laughing.

“My lords and ladies!” He could see someone wincing at the Redanian table. That was definitely not the right opening line. “My lord husband and I thank you for joining us on this day to celebrate our marriage! It is a honor to have you share this unforgettable day with us. Honored guests, family, and friends, let us raise a glass to this new union between the Warlord of the North and the House of Pankratz. It is a pleasure and a joy to bring these two nations together.”

Eh, close enough.

“To the White Wolf!” He raised a glass in a toast.

The hall roared back. Someone was definitely howling like a wolf at the witcher tables.

Jaskier drank his wine and sat. The Warlord followed his example.

He could hear Shani sputtering; her wine was clearly not watered down. Jaskier reached over and absconded with her goblet. “No more wine for you, I think.” It took some doing, but he snagged Priscilla’s goblet as well. “For you neither.”

“Hey!” Priscilla sputtered. “I’m not little, I can have some wine!”

Jaskier stared her down, eyebrow raised. “And you have.”

“Some more, I mean! You’re not taking Essi’s wine glass!” Petulant was not a great look on Priscilla, but it was preferable to public drunkenness in front of the whole court.

“Essi is thirteen and she is allowed to have a glass.” Essi smirked at her younger sister. “Which I will be keeping track of, thank you very much. Behave, girls, this isn’t our bar.”

An entire squadron of servants had descended upon the dining hall, armed with platters of meat, vegetables, and other delicacies. The choicest cuts were sent to their table. Ugh, he’d heard there was going to be a peacock roasted in its feathers served later. Glamorous, yes, but roast peacock tasted terrible.

Jaskier snagged the attention of their table server. “Just water or lemonade for my sisters for the rest of the night,” he said. “Please and thank you.”

The woman looked slightly astonished to be spoken to so politely. He hated court life. “Of course, your grace.”

He had done nothing but listen to rumors about the Warlord’s court since the alliance had been announced. Novigrad was the crossroads of the continent; he’d barely had enough time to sort through all the information available. But most reports had agreed; the Warlord led a bare bones court more suitable for barbarian monster hunters than the leaders of the northern empire. Jaskier wouldn’t have to put up with court life for much longer.

Jaskier looked at the witchers seated in the ballroom. They were a boisterous lot. All of them were heavily armed, even after being granted guest rights. A court run by witchers was almost as much of an aberration to polite society as a prince of the blood running away to Novigrad and running a pub with his younger sisters.

He wouldn’t have his sisters for much longer.

Jaskier checked in on the little rapscallions with the ease of a responsible older brother. Priscilla and Shani had abandoned their dinners and were busy playing some kind of game with coins and a small rubber ball, likely fighting over who would have to eat the dreaded roast beets. Essi was watching the crowd carefully, head angled so she could see as much of the ballroom with her good eye. She had more rings on her fingers than when they had entered the ballroom. When had she even had the time to lift a few trinkets off the guests?

“Julek, I won!” Priscilla informed him. “You have to sing _The Little Mermaid_ tonight for bedtime.”

“Oh, is that what you were playing for?” Jaskier asked, playing for time. He wasn’t sure when the Warlord would drag him to bed for the marriage night, if he’d have time to put the girls abed and ready himself.

The stories told all kinds of things about the hunger of witchers.

There was a reason why Jaskier refused to let them betroth Essi off, why he had stepped forward in her stead.

“Obviously. But since you’re going away, I’ll let Shani pick the second song, if she stays awake,” Priscilla said matter-of-factly, ignoring Shani’s pout. It was an impressive pout; Shani had honed her disappointed face on hundreds of guests passing through Rosemary and Thyme. Almost everyone crumbled in the face of her dimples.

“We’ll see, my loves. I’m not sure if I’ll have time this evening,” Jaskier hedged, glancing back at the Warlord. The stories told all kinds of things, but this evening had shown the Warlord to be a soft touch when it came to children. It was worth the risk.

The Warlord wasn’t even looking at him, watching a couple of absolutely enormous witchers with bear medallions fight at a table halfway across the hall. Still, he snapped to attention as soon as Jaskier laid his hand on the leather-clad arm closest to him.

“My lord husband, may I put my sisters abed later this evening?” Jaskier asked, looking up at the Warlord through his eyelashes. “We are soon to be parted and I wish to give them a final goodnight kiss.”

Down the table, Priscilla was tugging at one of Shani’s curls. Essi was the only one paying enough attention, her big blue eye wide and pleading.

The Warlord had stilled when touched. He ducked his head abruptly in a nod. “Yes,” he said. “Husband.”

... was the Warlord shy? Surely not.

Jaskier deliberately put that thought aside and turned to Essi. There was no point in hiding his conversation from the Warlord. A Witcher’s senses were too sharp. Still. He wasn’t sure how much time he had left with his sisters. Better to have this conversation now than not at all.

“ _Have your things been moved yet?_ ” He asked slowly in Elder. Near as he could tell, the witchers only spoke Common Nordling. The servants definitely only spoke Common.

Essi snuck a look past him at the Warlord and his side of the table, then at the servant pouring wine before answering. Good. She might yet survive the court in Tretogar. “ _No, not yet. We’re still in the children’s suite upstairs,”_ Essi replied haltingly. She hadn’t spent much time learning the language, but she was a quick study. “ _Radovid’s too much of a coward to mess with us until you’re gone._ ”

Jaskier took that back. Essi was going to get them eaten alive. He flicked her ear once, sharp. “ _Mind your tongue. Even in this language, the walls have ears. Our cousin won’t hesitate to make your suffer if he thinks he can get away with it. We’ve had a good run, but the house always wins in the end and this is not our home._ ”

Essi stared up at him, her good eye wide. “Julek.”

Jaskier watched the servant move away and lowered his voice even more. “ _I know, little eye. He can’t kill you, not until he’s sired an heir of his own. But that might be sooner than you think._ ”

Radovid had been promised to the princess of Cintra. That arrangement had crumbled as soon as the Cintran royal family had perished under Nilfgaard’s boot heels. Dijkstra had let it slip that the Queen in absentia had been negotiating heavily with the Duchess of Beauclair for an alliance as well. It was likely that a Toussanti duchess would arrive any day now. A marriage could be held by midsummer, a child born by spring next year if Radovid was lucky.

“ _Keep your knives handy and your coin close. Wear the special coats, as much as possible. Look out for your sisters,_ ” Jaskier advised quietly, holding Essi’s hand. “ _Should you need to run, I have paid Dijkstra a fortune to ensure your safety. Go to him and he shall deliver you to me. Melitele above, I hope it never comes to it. I’ve done as much as I can to protect you three._ ”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a truly enormous roast peacock, still dressed in its feathers with a gilded beak. There was scattered applause from the Redanian tables. The witchers looked less impressed; one of the witchers further along the head table snorted audibly.

The Warlord stared blankly at the servant presenting the dish. It took a couple of seconds before Jaskier realized this was another custom of nobility he’d have to deal with. He smiled and nodded and waved for it to be served.

Each plate served had a long feather on it, presumably so no one could forget that the House of Pankratz was rich enough to serve peacock to five hundred guests.

Shani looked revolted. “I don’t have to eat that, do I?”

“If Shani’s not eating it, neither am I,” Priscilla agreed.

“I’m so full, I just possibly couldn’t,” Essi demurred.

Jaskier sighed. At least one of his sisters had the barest hint of guile.

Jaskier poked at the meat on the plate. He ate a forkful. And then another forkful. And a third. And then he washed it all down with a gulp of wine.

“Why, that’s the best peacock I’ve ever had,” he lied through his teeth to the waiting servant, who beamed. It was tough and gamey, but at least the skin was crispy like a nicely fried duck.

Thankfully, the night went on without any further interruptions. During the betrothal negotiations, someone had made the executive decision to avoid any dancing songs during the festivities. Presumably, this was to protect the dainty Redanian noblewomen from interacting with the brutish hordes of Witchers during the mixed dances.

By the time the final cheese course had been served, Shani had passed out in Jaskier’s lap, drooling onto his new doublet. Priscilla was slumped over, barely upright. Even Essi looked a bit peaky as she picked spikes of cloves and cinnamon out of her marzipan.

Jaskier eyed the wedding guests. Surely custom had been satisfied and they could exit quietly.

“My lord husband, may we be excused? I think it is high time I put the young ones to bed,” he gestured at his sisters.

“Hmmm.” The Warlord nodded. His eyes looked less stern. “Do you need help?” He asked, looking past Jaskier to where Priscilla had full-on fallen asleep on top of the cheese platter.

Jaskier paused. It was a genuine offer, as far as he could tell. And the Warlord had been nothing but kind to the girls all evening long. Perhaps he could be trusted.

There was a servant in Radovid’s personal livery just beyond the table.

Surely his cousin wouldn’t harm them. Not while Jaskier was still in residence. His heart twisted, though.

“That would be a kindness, thank you,” he accepted, ducking his head low. “If you could pick up Priscilla, we could take the girls to the children’s suite.”

The Warlord stood. The hall stood with him, chairs and benches scraping as the crowds raggedly and drunkenly followed suit. Shani was truly out of it and did not even snuffle when Jaskier stood to address the halls.

“My honored guests, we thank you for your attendance this evening and hope you enjoyed yourselves. My dear sisters have been overcome by the joy and celebration and must be put to bed, but you may continue feasting without us!” Jaskier projected into the hall. “Good night, my lords and ladies, good night!”

Somewhere, there was an etiquette coach having an aneurism. He did not care.

The Warlord gently gathered up Priscilla and cradled her to his chest. She wasn’t a small child, but against his bulk she looked no bigger than a child of six. Priscilla snuffled into the Warlord’s armor, winding her arms around his neck trustingly.

Jaskier could feel the eyes of the room. Even the witchers looked taken aback.

Essi yawned wide enough for him to see her molars, listing against his side.

“Come, darling, it’s time for bed. My lord husband.” Jaskier inclined his head to the crowd and exited the ballroom through a side door usually used by the servants.

The hallways were shockingly quiet after the loudness of the dining hall, candles lit and flickering.

“This way, my lord husband,” Jaskier led the way to the children’s suite. He too was bunked in this wing. A terrible slight. He didn’t care. A man of his rank should have held the master suite. Instead, the Warlord was housed there, his witchers given other rooms in the estate. Not a single Redanian noble was staying overnight. Jaskier had heard the maid’s gossiping; Radovid had insisted on staying at a family hunting lodge an hour’s carriage-ride away. The court had followed his example.

The girl’s room was quiet, the three beds already turned down by helpful staff. Someone, bless them, had left out water for washing their faces and fresh night clothes, although Jaskier wasn’t going to bother. He’d unlace the girls and let them sleep in their fancy chemises.

Essi didn’t even wait to go behind the privacy curtain, tugging dress laces undone and kicking off her embroidered slippers.

“My lord husband, could I trouble you to hold Priscilla for another moment? I just need to settle Shani.”

Shani slept like a rock as he gently laid her to bed, slipping off her court dress and tucking her in with her favorite soft toy. He kissed her forehead once, brushing back red locks of hair.

The Warlord stood patiently as Jaskier carefully untied Priscilla’s dress and took out a few hairpins, letting the complex braids fall out. They’d be a mess to deal with in the morning. That was tomorrow’s problem. Priscilla had to weigh at least five stone, yet the Warlord’s arms held steady.

“I think that’s good enough,” Jaskier said, motioning to the free bed. “If I could trouble you to lay her down, it would be much appreciated.”

The Warlord laid his sister down as if she was made of delicate Zerrikanian porcelain, tugging the covers over her with softness. His scarred hand gently untwisted her blond hair to lay flat on the pillow.

Jaskier could scarcely breathe.

“Julek, when are you leaving tomorrow?” Essi asked from her bed, snuggling into her pillow.

Jaskier gathered himself, sitting by her side. “Mid-morning, my love. We shall sup together for breakfast in the sunroom at the normal hour. Do you want a song tonight, my love?”

“Sing the one about the seal wife,” Essi commanded with another yawn.

Jaskier risked a glance at the Warlord, who stood by the fire. His eyes glinted strangely in the dark room, reflecting the light from the fireplace. Predator’s eyes. There was no rush, no hurry in them.

He sang.

The song Essi asked for was an old Skelligan tune he’d learned in Oxenfurt. It was low and haunting, the song of a selkie mother who had left her children on land with their mortal father. Essi hummed along for a few stanzas before falling asleep herself. He finished the song and kissed her forehead.

“Sweet dreams, my loves,” he said, stepping quietly to kiss Priscilla as well and ensure their curtains were drawn tightly closed.

The Warlord waited for him outside, keeping watch.

“Thank you, my lord husband,” Jaskier said lowly. Few nobles would have indulged him this, on their wedding night, let alone helped put his sisters to bed. “ _Thank you._ ”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier took a long, slow, deep breath. It was time; he had delayed enough. They were lawfully married and he had a duty to fulfill. He couldn’t be the reason why this marriage, this alliance failed. Not when it was his sisters on the line.

“Shall we go to bed, my lord?”

In response, the Warlord offed him his arm. Jaskier took it. What else was there to do? The Warlord walked, steps unhurried, and brought him to Jaskier’s own bedchambers.

“My lord husband?” Jaskier looked up. There was scant difference in their actual heights, but the Warlord was wearing heavy boots suitable for war and Jaskier daintily embroidered leather court shoes.

The Warlord leaned in close. Jaskier’s heart pounded and his breathing stopped. He could see the individual white eyelashes, the flecks of gold-within-gold in his husband’s fearsome eyes, the faint scars weathered silver with age. The Warlord breathed in once through his nose... and leaned back.

“Good night, husband.” He said, voice low as he opened the doors to Jaskier’s chamber, ushered Jaskier through, and closed the door with himself on the other side.

Jaskier blinked.

What.

The door remained closed.

He waited and waited, but the Warlord never returned.

Confused and anxious, Jaskier curled in his bed, thoughts racing. Sleep took a long time to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medieval feasts were [absolutely wild.](http://lisatsering.tripod.com/roastpeacock.html) If you ever have the chance, go to Hampton Court in Greenwich and see the living historians talk about how cooking happened in the 16th century, it’s a hoot and a holler. (Side note, I also got to hold a falcon there!)
> 
> Jaskier sings [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2WblOE3WNtY)
> 
> This chapter was meant to be 4K shorter, but it got away from me. I am slightly worried about what this means about the total word count.
> 
> Let me know what you liked, what you didn’t, etc. et al.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am totally blown away by all the love. I am getting all verklempt here. Y’all are great and I love everyone in this bar.

Jaskier had not slept well. Neither, apparently, had any of his sisters. It was shaping up to be a particularly shit morning and they hadn’t even gotten to the part where he was going to say goodbye to them, possibly for forever.

Fuck.

At least there was coffee. Melitele above, he hoped they had coffee at the Kaer.

“Eat your kasha, Priscilla.”

“It’s all strange and gloopy. And why is it yellow? Kasha is supposed to be brown.”

“Just try it, okay? The cooks sent up zacierki by accident.” Jaskier tore at a bread roll. It was light and fluffy, fresh out of the oven. He wasn’t hungry. He ate it anyways. He wasn’t going to waste bread this fine, even if his stomach was in knots. “There’s honey and saffron in it.”

Priscilla eyed her bowl with suspicion. “I want regular kasha.”

Shani had found the honey pot and spooned as much as she could into her own bowl before Jaskier managed to wrangle it away from her. “It’s good! But the milk tastes weird.”

“What, really?” Essi grabbed Shani’s mug and took a sip. “No, that’s what really fresh cow’s milk tastes like before it sours.”

Shani flailed wildly to get her mug back, nearly knocking over the milk pitcher. “Hey, get your own!”

“Melitele above, I was just checking!” Essi huffed. “Don’t be a brat.”

“Girls,” Jaskier sighed into his coffee. He had an entire glorious carafe to himself. Maybe if he drank it all, it might even be enough to get him through this horror show of a day. “Just eat your breakfast.”

Priscilla mulishly stirred at her porridge and pointedly did not eat.

Normally, Jaskier would let her ride the emotions out, but they were on something of a limited time frame and he really wanted to not have whatever was bugging Priscilla ruin his last meal with his sisters.

“Priscilla, sweet pea, do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Priscilla fiddled with her braids. None of the previous night’s finery had survived, but Jaskier hadn’t minded redoing them in the morning. “You didn’t sing last night.”

“Yes, he did. _You_ fell asleep during dessert like a baby and missed it,” Essi said, smugly superior.

“I’m not a baby! I’m almost ten!” Priscilla countered furiously.“You take that back!”

“Oh really? You’re such a baby that Julek’s new husband had to carry you to bed and tuck you in!”

Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose. “Essi, darling, you are _not helping_. Please stop antagonizing your sister. ”

They ignored him. The girls had managed to stay well behaved throughout all of yesterday’s excitement. Expecting them to maintain that level of biddability for a second day was clearly delusional.

“No he didn’t!”

“Yes he did! The whole court saw you were a big baby and couldn’t stay awake through Julek’s wedding feast. And then Julek sang _my_ favorite song for bedtime, because he loves _me_ the most.”

Priscilla let out an inarticulate shriek of rage and threw her spoon at Essi, who dodged and immediately countered by shrieking “silly baby silly baby” at the top of her lungs. Shani joined in, pounding the table and rattling the silverware.

“That is ENOUGH,” Jaskier shouted, projecting his voice as if he was singing at a massive outdoor festival. “Stop being such brats and eat your breakfast!”

They fell silent, eyes wide.

He never yelled at his sisters. Jaskier was thoroughly indulgent with the girls and rarely reprimanded them, even when they were being unholy terrors. This was enough of an aberration to shock them into sullenly picking at their breakfasts. He felt absolutely rotten.

Jaskier rubbed his eyes and took a long, calming breath. It didn’t work. He deliberately took another calming breath.

“Eska. Priska. Shanka. I am sorry for losing my temper and shouting.”

Priscilla sniffed and refused to look at him.

“I know you’re feeling stressed and anxious about today,” he admitted. “I am too. It’s going to be a big change, and change can be scary. But, it can also be the start of something good.”

Somehow, Jaskier managed to get through that lie without choking on it.

“It was scary when I came back to Lettenhove and then moved us to Novigrad, yes? But things turned out all right.”

Well, he had managed to keep all three of his sisters alive for five years, which was frankly more than anyone had expected.

“But you’re going away without us,” Shani pointed out, matter of factly. “And people don’t come back when they go away.”

Jaskier’s fingers clenched around his coffee mug. Shani was more or less right. Father had died of the sweating sickness while away at court. So had their brothers, Valentin and Piotr. Mother had died a year later of the ague during her annual pilgrimage to the Temple of Melitele in Ellander.

Shani had been so small when he’d arrived at the family estate. Essi and Priscilla hadn’t really recognized him after years in Oxenfurt and a brief stint on the road. He had swooped in, a veritable stranger, and taken them away from everything they’d known to live above a pub too close to the docks and the red-light district in Novigrad.

“That’s not true,” Jaskier said slowly. “I came back. You were still a babe, Shani, but when mother passed, I came back from my travels around the Continent to take care of you three.”

“And now you’re going away to Kaedwen and giving us to Radovid.”

Jaskier lets that accusation from Shani sink in. Surely there were knives on the breakfast table that were better for carving out his heart.

“Shanka, not every spread of cards is a winning Gwent hand,” he said. “Sometimes, you must play the round, even if you will lose.”

Essi rolled her eyes and began to pick at her kasha again. “You and your Gwent metaphors, Julek.”

He smiled. “Yes, well, the point stands. I am indeed going to the Kaer with my lord husband and you three will remain here in Tretogar.”

Thank all the listening gods. Jaskier was an acceptable sacrifice to appease the Warlord’s hunger. His sisters were not.

Besides, Radovid wasn’t king yet. Vestibor remained hearty and hale despite a relatively advanced age. Their odious cousin might be legally entrusted with their guardianship, but Jaskier had actually raised the three of them for the past five years. He knew exactly how much work dealing with the three little terrors actually required. There would be bloodshed and gross property damage if he left them in Radovid’s care.

The Eternal Flame wouldn’t be needed to sack and burn Tretogar to the ground. The girls could manage it just fine themselves if given enough incentive and access to flammable materials.

In order to prevent this kind of calamity, Jaskier had woken up well before the sun and raced a-horseback to the neighboring manors. He’d collared enough members of Vestibor’s own council into agreeing that the girls would be left alone in the family estate. He’d argued sweetly, persuasively.

After all, this estate had been entailed to Jaskier upon their father’s death. The upkeep came out of his own per annum from the Crown, regardless of occupancy. If they stayed in this estate, their costs would be part of his budget, not the prince’s. Radovid would save money by not having to host the girls in his own household.

Really, though, few members of Vestibor’s council would leave a turnspit dog in the care of Radovid.

Not after what happened to Cousin Fyodor.

Jaskier had gotten the agreement signed and sealed before racing back to the family estate early enough to wake the girls for breakfast. It was amazing how quickly the council members rolled over for him.Then again, his threats were more potent now, wed to the Warlord. If he thought they weren’t holding up their side of the bargain, he would come back from Kaedwen. With his new lord husband. With his new lord husband’s witcher army.

Essi, Priscilla, and Shani were hostages for his good behavior. But if they were not treated like the treasures they were, well. He would _stop behaving_.

... assuming, of course, that his new husband didn’t _eat him_ upon arrival in Kaer Morhen. Jaskier had spent less than a day with the witcher, but he was pretty certain the rumors about the Warlord’s feral, rapacious nature were overblown. Probably. 

Still.

In the end, though, it was agreed. His sisters would remain here, under their Nanny Mariam’s care, until a suitable duenna and ladies-in-waiting could be arranged to join them. Radovid would not be involved in their day-to-day lives. Not unless he decided to personally decamp to the rural estate. Even motivated by spite, Radovid wouldn’t give up life in the capitol city to raise three recalcitrant second cousins.

Out of sight of the court, the girls would have as normal an upbringing as possible until they were to be shipped off to the temple finishing school in Ellander at sixteen. Gods willing, he’d still have enough pull within the court to arrange their marriages when they came of age, supposing he lived long enough to see it.

It was the best he could do under such short notice. Damn Radovid to hell. Jaskier had spent months on making satisfactory arrangements to keep the girls comfortable and educated in Novigrad and his blasted cousin had ruined it all with his malicious temperament.

Poor Nanny Mariam was about to deal with a great deal of interviewing in the coming weeks. It was unlikely many of his previous hires would be willing to move from the free city of Novigrad to a run-down family estate well outside of the cultural backwater of Tretogar, even if their charges were now so high in the line of succession. Anyone interested in the position due to the girl’s rank was automatically unsuitable, in his eyes. They needed teachers and guidance and friends, not courtiers jockeying for influence.

Fuck, that reminded him, the estate itself needed more full-time staff if it was to remain permanently occupied. He needed to deal with that as well before he left and give the steward leave to hire more workers. Jaskier made a mental note to sort that out and focused again on his sisters.

“In fact, I have arranged matters so that you will be staying at our estate here!” Jaskier said cheerfully, as if there were not a half-dozen letters of employment that needed amending. “I figured, there’s no need to bother Radovid with your music lessons or Elder declensions on a daily basis. The air is fresher here in the countryside, better for growing girls.”

Essi choked on her milk. “What?”

“See, that’s the kind of cough we’re trying to heal with an extended stay in our country estate. _Away from the court_. All that time in Novigrad was too stressful. You need time away from the city, right darling?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows, emphasizing his words deliberately.

His younger sister blinked slowly, visibly taking in the information and thinking through the implications. She raised a linen napkin to her mouth and coughed again, a delicate and obviously fake maneuver. “Oh yes, I need the fresh air. _Away from the court_ ,” Essi echoed, hiding her grin poorly with the napkin.

Shani looked confused. “Wait, are we not moving to the palace?”

“No, you’ll be staying here with Nanny Mariam. Your tutors will join you here after a suitable amount of time,” Jaskier explained.

The thunderclouds on Priscilla’s face lightened somewhat, although she was still remaining quiet out of dogged persistence. Priscilla had taken to life in the city well. Living at the country estate would be a rough transition, but it was the best alternative he could think of. It was certainly better than a life under Radovid’s care.

Jaskier held up a hand in warning. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t arrange a complete hermitage. You’ll have to go to the palace in Tretogar for the Midsummer and Solstice celebrations, supposing your delicate dispositions can handle it.”

“My poor nerves are just shattered,” Essi faked a dramatic swoon back into her chair, one hand dramatically clutched to her heart. “I couldn’t possibly travel in these conditions.”

His sister had obviously been spending too much time at the pfennig theaters. Shani laughed at the exaggerated expression on Essi’s face and attempted to one-up her; she looked concussed instead. Even Priscilla giggled for a second.

“That’s the spirit,” Jaskier encouraged.

He glanced at the window outside. There was much to do and little time to do it.

“One final thing, although hopefully this is a sweetmeat to help ease the bitter medicine down.” Jaskier pulled a fine linen bag from his pocket and handed each of his sisters their own velvet bag. He’d commissioned the pieces when word had come back from Kaer Morhen that betrothal treaty had been accepted.

“A gift, to remind you that I always hold you in my heart.”

Shani dumped hers out on the table. “It’s a flower necklace!” She examined the pendant carefully. “It’s so pretty!”

“Buttercups? But your stage name is Jaskier,” Essi asked, tracing the gemstones on her set of hairpins.

Priscilla still said nothing, but she handed the silver hair clip back to Jaskier and turned her head. He delicately pulled out a few of her braids and clipped everything into back into place. The citrine jewels complimented her bright blonde hair.

“It’s an old translation, dear heart. As a boy, I was once as blonde as you and darling Priska. Mother used to call me her little buttercup. In the courtly tradition, a buttercup means lightness and joy, two things that you have brought me every day.”

He patted Priscilla on the shoulder and moved to help Shani with her necklace. Jaskier fastened the necklace carefully, making sure the fine chain did not tangle with his youngest sister’s riotous red hair. “I wanted to leave you three with something to remember me by, but also a little lesson for the future.”

“Oh?” Essi watched him carefully.

He’d never wanted to bring any of his sisters to court. At least Essi was learning: nothing was done here without at least three motives. Even a simple gift like this served as a reminder of his love, signaled that the girls belonged to a unified set, and told the court a warning that they remained under his protection, even at a distance.

Buttercups could be bright. Cheerful. Deadly, under the correct circumstances.

This particular gift had one further purpose.

Jaskier moved over to Essi and gently twisted her hairpins, just so. With the faintest of clicks, the jewels unhinged, showing the hidden cavity full of a pale, yellow powder. It wasn’t truly deadly, not in the amount he’d managed to procure. It would, however, serve to seriously discomfit any who ingested it. Jaskier guided Essi’s hands over the pins to show her the latching mechanism.

Essi sat incredibly still as he arranged the pins carefully in her hair, making sure her good eye was unobstructed.

“Remember your Paracelsus. But more importantly, remember I love you no matter what.”

Priscilla broke the strange, solemn mood by standing up and storming off. Jaskier winced at the slam of the door.

Jaskier wanted to go after her, but there was too much he needed to sort out before the Warlord’s party left. “Give her a few minutes,” he said with a sigh. “Let her storm. But we must meet with Nanny Mariam soon to ready ourselves for the leaving ceremony.”

Essi stood and brushed off her skirts. “I’ll go after her. She’s liable to throw things if you go to her now.” She slipped out of the room silently and he was left with Shani.

A Shani who had managed to get her sticky little fingers back into the honey pot while all the emotional turmoil was going on. The little terror didn’t even have the sheer decency to look guilty.

“What?” She asked around the spoonful of kasha and honey.

Jaskier sighed. “Come on then, let’s get you cleaned up and then you can help me with my correspondence while we wait for Nanny Mariam.”

He threw back the last of the coffee and grimaced. There was work to be done.

****

Jaskier had met a sorceress precisely once. Philippa Eilhart had been the court magician to the Redanian throne for longer than he’d been alive. The only time they’d crossed paths had been at Cousin Heribort’s funeral. Jaskier was scared shitless of the woman.

Yennefer of Vengerberg seemed cut from the same terrifying yet sexy cloth.

The Warlord’s personal sorceress was of middling height, with long black hair and a lacy court dress in black velvet that likely cost more than a destrier. A tiny part of his brain devoted to fashion was wondering where on the continent were the witchers getting such sumptuous black fabrics.

The bigger part of his brain was more concerned with the ominous crackling in the air as she joined her compatriots and created the largest portal in the air he’d ever seen in the great hall. It was the first portal he’d ever seen, but even he could tell it was a big one, large enough for three witchers (or five normal men) to walk abreast.

The edges of the portal shimmered with ethereal witchlight. The portal itself was inky blackness.

It was terrifying.

“Ohh, neat,” said Shani. “Julek, can I learn how to do that?”

Jaskier put aside the fear and patted her head. “I’m given to understand that magic is an inborn talent, sweetheart.”

“So, probably not, no.” Essi concluded.

Priscilla continued on with her silent streak, standing with her arms cross and a foul look on her face. He wasn’t going to force her to speak, but Melitele’s tits, Priscilla was picking a bad time for this tantrum.

Jaskier and his sisters stood in the Great Hall. There were less people than yesterday; only a few members of court were there to see him and the party of invading witchers off. Most of the Redanian court had gotten their fill of the drama yesterday, watching as one of their own was thrown to the wolves.

Unfortunately, Radovid was among those present. He stood with the other courtiers looking both thwarted and supercilious. Presumably, he had heard how Jaskier had outmaneuvered him in the early morning hours.

Despite the low turnout, Jaskier could see at least three of the council members that he’d strong-armed earlier that morning. Each one met his gaze willingly. Their agreement stood, as of now. Jaskier did his best to ignore his cousin and focused on his sisters.

The girls were all dressed in matching red-and-white kirtles embroidered with the Redanian silver eagle. It suited them poorly. Jaskier himself was in a brilliant red doublet, also embroidered with the silver eagle. The whole tableau screamed ‘look at power and might of the House of Pankratz’. He hated it.

The Warlord’s witchers were scattered around the hall; at a nod from their liege lord, they started moving towards the portal. A lone chatelaine in Redanian livery oversaw the transition of Jaskier’s wedding trousseau and other belongings from a neat pile to a handcart manned by a heavily scarred witcher with a manticore medallion. His lute was packed away in a leather case. Maybe he’d even get to play it one day at the Kaer.

The room emptied in an orderly fashion, save for a handful of witchers. They were almost certainly the Warlord’s honor guard. They were certainly scary enough for the position.

“Husband.” The Warlord’s gold eyes were striking in any light. “It is time.”

Jaskier nodded and knelt. Shani rushed into his arms, Priscilla and Essi not far behind in a crushing group hug. He was not going to cry. He was not going to cry.

“Don’t go, Julek,” begged Priscilla, finally breaking her silence.

“Ah, my loves, but I must.” Jaskier said thickly. He was definitely crying.

Shani sniffled into his doublet, likely dripping snot everywhere.

“Remember what we talked about, okay? Listen to Nanny Mariam and eat your vegetables and don’t forget to do your musical scales before bed every night. You are going to be magnificent.” Jaskier was aware of every single breath, every heartbeat in which he held his sisters. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

“We’ll be good,” Essi promised. “I’ll take care of Shanka and Priska.”

He didn’t want to let go. He had to.

Jaskier couldn’t ignore the gentle hand placed on his shoulder. It was his husband.

He let go. Stood. Kissed their foreheads one last time.

He was doing this for them. To protect them.

The Warlord stood at his side. They’d been married less than a day and now he was going to leave with this unknown man, leave his sisters behind.

Jaskier straightened his shoulders. “Come, my loves, say goodbye to your lord brother-in-law.”

Essi, bless her, managed a passable curtesy. “Goodbye, my lord.”

Priscilla waved listlessly and said nothing

“Bye, Geralt,” said Shani. She hugged the Warlord tightly. The Warlord did not startle this time, but the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled. He patted her twice on the back.

“Goodbye, girls,” he rumbled back and took up Jaskier’s arm. It was a noose around his neck. It was a steady support. Jaskier wrestled his unruly heart back under control.

Their nursemaid came up to take Shani in her arms. Nanny Mariam had been with his family for decades and had followed Jaskier to Novigrad when he had taken custody of his sisters. She was more grandmother than servant. Jaskier caught her eye and she nodded. Nothing more needed to be said.

“No tears, my loves. I’m going on an adventure,” he said, gently untangling Priscilla’s hands from his doublet and giving them to Essi.

“An adventure,” Essi agreed, nodding firmly. “One that you’ll turn into a story and sing for us, the next time we meet.”

Melitele above, his sister was too good for him. All he could do was nod.

“My lord husband.” Jaskier said, twining his arm more securely with the Warlord’s. He took a step towards the portal and then another.

He could hear Shani’s sniffles. He couldn’t look. If he looked, he’d break into a thousand pieces.

Jaskier looked.

His sisters had crowded around Mariam, ducklings huddled close to their mother. Shani, who was almost too big to be carried, hid her face in Mariam’s neck. Essi was holding Priscilla’s hand and standing tall. The older two girls weren’t crying, but it was a near thing.

He would not cry. He was doing this for his sisters, ensuring their safety and survival.

The Warlord paused before the portal. Jaskier, hyperaware of everything the scarred witcher did, followed suit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Warlord visibly steel himself.

“My lord husband?” He asked quietly.

A soft exhale. “I hate portals,” his husband admitted. “They’re hell on my senses.”

Jaskier did not gape at the admission of weakness, no matter how small. Still. An olive branch was offered. He had to reciprocate. “I’ve never portalled anywhere. I’m afraid I might not acquit myself gracefully.”

The Warlord let go of his arm. Instead, he took Jaskier’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He hands had rough calluses from the set of swords he wore even now, but they held him so gently.

“Any day now, Geralt,” the witch heckled. Yennefer of Vengerberg had to be a sorceress of unparalleled caliber to maintain a working such as this for such a long period of time. Moreover, she had to be well in the warlord’s confidences to speak to him in such a casual manner.

A final glance at his sisters. Essi was watching him, calm and cool and collected. She nodded once, one hand drifting up to touch her new hairpins. She was, he suspected, not entirely unaware of the implications of his marriage, of how close it had been her name on the treaty papers and not his. Jaskier nodded back.

“Together?” The Warlord asked.

Jaskier squared his shoulders. “Together.”

He would face this challenge. For his sisters, he would do anything.

Jaskier walked into the portal with his new husband, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, the only Elder Geralt knows is curse words. *cackles wildly*
> 
> Other points of interest:
> 
>   * if you’re going to base your fantasyland off medieval Poland, you don’t get to have potatoes, tomatoes, or corn, which are all New World crops. For more information about what they ate and drank back in ye olden times, I recommend [this book, available as a pdf online](http://www.reenactor.ru/ARH/PDF/Dembinska.pdf).
>   * Before we had ovens, [small, short-legged dogs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turnspit_dog) were used to rotate and roast meat in kitchens up until the Victorian period. They would have Sundays off and would be brought to church to be used as footwarmers in the chilly chapels.
>   * Paracelsus (who is definitely *better* than Celsus) famously said “the dose makes the poison”. He was also a major proponent of [using arsenic for medical reasons](https://jmvh.org/article/arsenic-the-poison-of-kings-and-the-saviour-of-syphilis/) and not killing off your elderly relatives for the inheritance, which is what everyone else was using arsenic for. (Yes, I know he’s from a later historical period than from what’s shown in the show/books. Time isn’t real.)
>   * A good warhorse in the medieval period could cost anywhere from 2-6 year’s worth of wages for the average laborer. Yennefer has some fancy, fancy tastes.
> 

> 
> I can promise less melodrama for the next chapter, probably. Maybe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I promised less melodrama? Yeah, about that.

Kaer Morhen was better and worse than he expected.

The portal had spat them out into an open courtyard within the keep. It was ringed by gray limestone walls, thick and well-maintained.

Jaskier’s first impression of the witcher’s stronghold was immediately marred by a sudden streak of vertigo. It was worse than any drunken bender Jaskier had stumbled through before he’d taken guardianship over his sisters. Portalling did not agree with him.

The Warlord, for all his dislike of portals, stayed steady and true. He patted Jaskier gently on the back. “The first portal is always like that.”

It was sweet. The hand on his back burned like a firebrand.

Other witchers filed through the portal behind them, followed by the sorceress. Yennefer of Vengerberg closed it with a casual twist of her wrist and the magic collapsed.

It was done.

He was on his own now.

Jaskier breathed in. Out. In again. His chest felt weird. He tried to push the feeling down.

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Prince Julian,” said Eskel. He looked closer at Jaskier. “Are you all right?

Jaskier did not feel all right. He smiled and nodded. “My first portal,” he said, willing his spine to straighten and his heart to calm. Jaskier took the opportunity to get a better look at Kaer Morhen.

From what he could tell, they had landed in the outer barbican of the fortress. Despite the elven name, Kaer Morhen had been built by the witchers themselves and the architecture typified a Kaedweni fortress. The shield wall was thick gray limestone, the keep rising above it dramatically past a gatehouse and another wall. Stone bricks lined the space, covered with clean straw in places. He could smell horses and livestock and the sweat of too many men in too small a space.

The witcher keep was located somewhere in the Blue Mountains in the north of Kaedwen. Spring was late coming this far north; the air was noticeably colder than in the lowlands of Redania. That was solely the reason for the gooseflesh on his arms and no other.

The Warlord moved closer. He was neatly pressed along Jaskier’s lanky frame, heat and bulk doing much to bolster Jaskier in this moment of weakness.

“Husband?”

Jaskier had to respond. “Your keep is breathtaking, my lord husband. I find myself speechless.”

It was true. There was a stark beauty to the old stone fortress. It would have been prettier if Jaskier was just visiting and not condemned to spend the rest of his life here, but at least it looked all right.

One of the nearby wolves snorted.

The Warlord rumbled back, a deep base sound from inside his chest.

Jaskier was very aware of the dozens of witchers surrounding them as the Warlord leaned into him. He would not show fear.

The wolves of Kaer Morhen were not ones to stand on ceremony. Jaskier wasn’t much accustomed to the pageantry of the Redanian court, but even he could tell this “welcoming ceremony” was less an official event and more of a mass of witchers staring at him.

He stared back.

It was downright disconcerting.

Jaskier’s savior from this awkwardness, oddly enough, was the sorceress herself.

“Right, that’s enough out of you lot. Let’s get the Prince situated and then you can sniff him to your heart’s content later at luncheon.” The Lady Yennefer waggled her fingers at the assembled witchers. “Go on, shoo.”

They scattered. Jaskier had seen pigeons more willing to stand their ground in Hierarch Square.

Jaskier tried to keep the shock and awe off his face, but judging by the sorceress’ cackle, he’d done a poor job of it.

“Witchers need a firm hand, Prince Julian,” she said with a smirk. “Including, of course, your new husband. Geralt, you have things to do, let your poor husband sit down a bit and unpack his bags.”

The Warlord caught his gaze. Jaskier kept it. “Yennefer will take care of you, husband.” The Warlord finally let go of his arm and, with one long look at the sorceress, stalked off.

Jaskier’s arm felt cold. He tried to ignore it.

“So milady,” he said brightly to Lady Yennefer, “I heard a rumor that Kaer Morhen has hot springs.”

***

There had been a whirlwind tour of the Kaer. It had not included the fabled hot springs. Jaskier hadn’t been able to appreciate much of it, nauseous and heart beating rabbit-quick. Lady Yennefer had merely pointed out a few points of interest, sweeping past the small groups of witchers and servants conveniently idling in their path.

Jaskier liked being the center of attention: he was a bard by trade and by choice. Still, there was distinct difference between performing for a crowd and having a group of scullery maids burst into excitable gossip as he passed.

At least there _were_ scullery maids. Some of the intelligence reports had painted a truly dire picture about the living situation here at the Kaer. Dijkstra had never been able to confirm anything but the barest of facts. Wild speculation filled in the gaps, telling tales of castle stuffed with blood-mad witchers and the gruesome remains of the unlucky peasants who were dragged there, wailing and screaming.

They passed by a library. A pair of golden-eyed teenagers were reshelving books under the watchful gaze of an ancient-looking witcher.

Jaskier was willing to admit that some of Dijkstra’s information might possibly be bad.

Lady Yennefer’s heels clicked decisively on the stone floor. She led him to a door and shooed him in, informing him to the timing for luncheon. And then, Lady Yennefer had left him to sort through his things on his own. It was a kindness, giving him time to settle.

The rooms he’d been given were starkly appointed. Jaskier wasn’t expecting gilded lilies or hand painted wallpapers, but a tapestry or two to soften the stone walls wouldn’t go amiss. The dayroom was well lit, thanks to a large glass window facing south to catch the most of the sun’s path. And, of course, there was a large hearth in both the dayroom and the sleeping chamber, thankfully already lit and well-stocked with firewood to chase away the cold.

As far as he could tell, these were not the Warlord’s personal rooms, either.

Jaskier was faintly glad. It was common for most royal couples to maintain separate bedrooms, especially in treaty-matches. He’d not been certain, not until the Lady Yennefer had pointed at the thick wooden door just down the hall and noted that they were “Geralt’s chambers, he’s such a beast in the evenings when he’s tired, try not to bother him after supper if you didn’t want your head gnawed off”.

He was not particularly sure if that was hyperbole or not. Jaskier was not going to risk it.

The bed was soft and covered in thick blankets, its thick canopy drawn back to let in the light. He laid down on the woolen mattress and hid his head under a decadent goose-down pillow and went through every single hand mobility exercise he knew. Jaskier was not going to think about anything. If he thought about things, he would start crying and never stop and he was expected at luncheon.

Jaskier woke from a fitful doze some time later to the soft sound of a door closing. He bolted upright. The fire had been stoked and his room felt warmer.

The servants in Kaer Morhen were nearly as light-footed as the witchers they served. Jaskier tried not to panic at the thought of a stranger in his space.

At least the servants had been prompt; his things had been delivered already. Jaskier immediately dove for the chest of clothing, desperate to find something a little warmer and less ostentatious. Novigrad was located by the sea. It never got truly cold there. In comparison, Kaer Morhen in spring was like the deepest, darkest days of midwinter in Novigrad. The mountain’s chill was already seeping into his bones despite the fire.

Jaskier had the sinking realization that he was going to need a coat indoors for the foreseeable future. Maybe it would warm up closer to midsummer.

The trousseau was appallingly stocked. Who even wore bliaut anymore? And in a burnt orange, to boot.

“Excuse me, Prince Julian?”

Unfortunately, he’d gone and left most of his clothes at the Rosemary and Thyme. Anything suited to slumming it as a successful bard and respectable publican was, well, unsuitable for being a Redanian treaty-bride. Traditionally, the Crown sponsored a whole new trousseau for whichever poor soul they’d bartered off for an alliance.

Trust Radovid to not miss another chance to short him. The clothes were ill-fitted and in the wrong weight, light silks and linens unsuitable for the chill of the northern mountains. Even the silks, ostensibly luxurious, had been clearly dug out of decades-old storage. If Jaskier could smell the camphor, it was likely unbearable for any nearby witcher. They’d have to be laundered before he could even think of wearing them in public.

“Prince Julian?”

There was a young page at his door. Belatedly, Jaskier realized the lad was talking to him.

Sweet Melitele, these people were actually going to call him Prince Julian. He should probably sort that out at some point.

“Yes?” Jaskier turned slowly. He tried to smile. It worked, sort of.

The page sketched a bow worse than anything Shani had ever attempted. The pain in his heart was almost enough to make him cry. He didn’t.

“M’lord Julian, Lady Yennefer sent me to see if you needed anything?”

Jaskier paused. He certainly didn’t want to start off his stay at Kaer Morhen asking for things; it set a bad precedent. Jaskier couldn’t look like he was begging or ill-prepared by his people for this marriage. He _was_ , but there was no point going around saying it.

It was so frigid in the room, though, even with the fire.

Jaskier smiled and settled the best-fitting wool jacket over his shoulders. No one could notice the sleeves were too short if he just wore it like a capelet.

“No, I’m fine, thank you. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, I do need a guide back to the dining hall for luncheon?”

“Sure, no problem,” the page grinned. “I’m Gwen, but everyone calls me Gwenik.”

The poor lad had no concept of the proper forms for addressing a prince, even one as meager as Jaskier. It was a breath of fresh air after a few months of stultifying high formality in Tretogar.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gwenik,” said Jaskier. The boy looked to be around Priscilla’s size, maybe eight or nine years old. “Will luncheon be served soon?”

“Soon enough,” Gwenik agreed. “We can head down now and beat the rush, if you like?”

He thought about arriving late to luncheon, the warlord’s assorted hordes all seated and watching him with those bright predator eyes. About walking through that gauntlet only to end up at the Warlord’s side. Jaskier did not shudder.

“I would, thank you.”

Jaskier followed the page into the hallway. His door had a lock, but Jaskier did not have the key. He stared at it for a long second, then shrugged. If a witcher wanted into his room, there was aught he could do about it. Besides, he certainly wasn’t going to pull out his lockpicking set in front of this child, what kind of message would that send? No. He would imply trust in his hosts and confidence in their security by not even asking for the key.

Gwenik charitably waited a half-minute before starting in with his questions.

“You’re a Redanian prince, right? What’s Redania like? I’ve never been off the mountain.”

“Never?”

“Well, I go down to the summer camp with the rest of the keep to help with the shearing every spring, but that doesn’t count. It’s still in the Blue Mountains.” Gwen smiled brightly, leading Jaskier through the halls. “But I was talking to Big Gwen - my grandwitcher, he’s one of the wolves - and he said that I’m old enough to go to Troed Blaidd this year with the summer caravan.”

“That’ll be exciting,” Jaskier said, trying to wrap his mind around the phrase “grandwitcher” and failing miserably.

“Uh huh! It’s a week’s journey there with all the wool and another week back with supplies, but sometimes they time the trip around midsummer and the caravan stays in Troed Blaidd for the festival! I heard they had a bonfire that’s as big as a rock troll last year!”

Jaskier had no idea how big a rock troll was. Before this very moment, he would not have put money on the existence of rock trolls. “That would be interesting to see.”

The hallway around them looked vaguely familiar. Jaskier was pretty sure he’d gone down these stairs before.

“How much further until we reach the dining hall?”

“Oh, we’re almost there, but I’m taking you the long way since Cook hasn’t rung the bell yet and there’s no point in going in there if the food’s not ready,” Gwenik explained, waving his arms a bit.

Jaskier had been up well before dawn, ridden around the Redanian countryside, amended dozens of letters of employment and other legal contracts, said goodbye to his sisters, and portalled to a keep hundreds of miles away from his homeland, all before lunch. His bones ached and his chest felt strange. Frankly, all Jaskier wanted to do was to sit down in the quiet, empty dining hall and not exist until luncheon was served.

What Jaskier wanted didn’t matter.

“Fair enough! Is there any place in particular you’d like to show me? If you’ve lived here your whole life, you must know the best parts of the keep.”

Gwenik beamed and Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back. The child looked strong and healthy and well-fed, with healthy hair and teeth. Noble pages in Redania might look this hale, but few others. It was a stunning indication that the witchers were, in fact, taking care of those who had pledged their allegiance.

“I know just the place!” Gwenik grabbed for Jaskier’s hand and dragged him up a narrow, winding staircase. The stone was carefully uneven, meant to put off any invaders.

Breathing was starting to become an issue when they finally reached the final landing. The air smelled of wood-dust and dried herbs. Gwenik pulled at an iron latch, swinging open a narrow door that was smaller than he was. Jaskier had to bend in half to shuffle through the low lintel.

It was a surprisingly open space, rough timber beams above and below. There was one lone window at the far end to let in light. Kaer Morhen’s slate roofing tiles kept him from standing upright fully.

“Is this the attic?” Jaskier asked, not moving. His heart was pounding from the climb.

“Yup!” Gwenik jumped from beam to beam. “You gotta stay on the timbers, otherwise you fall through to the dining hall.”

Jaskier very slowly, very carefully shifted his weight to the thick wooden beams.

Gwenik moved further into the room. “They used to keep potions ingredients up here until Lady Merigold built her stillroom by the infirmary. No one wants to use it anymore, since it’s kind of tricky to balance stuff and not drop it through the ceiling, you know?”

“I do.” His family’s estate in Lettenhove had a similar attic space, but they had put down wooden boards and used it for storage. They certainly hadn’t installed a window in it.

Gwenik had reached the window. “Come on, the best part is over here.”

Jaskier looked. It was a glass window. A glass window, set into an unused attic space. His head whirled at the sheer implications of wealth as he carefully picked his way across to meet Gwenik at the window.

The boy lifted the sash. The window swung out into open air, at least a hundred feet above the stone courtyard. “They used to lift boxes up here with a winch, see? These days, we just make the trainees carry the boxes into the stillroom for Lady Merigold. It’s a lot easier.”

There was indeed a winch mechanism bolted into the exterior wall. Jaskier was too busy gripping the windowsill and grabbing at Gwenik’s collar to keep the fool boy from tipping over into the empty void if he lost his balance. Gods, the boy was worse than Shani, who viewed the whole world as her personal climbing frame.

“You can see the whole valley from here!” Gwenik said cheerfully, ignoring the horrific drop.

Jaskier had to admit, this was a lovely (if vertigo-inducing) view. “I can indeed!”

His eyes, admittedly, were not on the landscape. One was so rarely offered a bird’s eye view of an enemy keep, let alone one as well-protected as Kaer Morhen. Instead, Jaskier did his best to memorize the keep’s layout for future reference.

From this perch, the whole of the keep was laid out before him. Jaskier picked out stables, a fletchery, training grounds, and even a blacksmith’s forge. There were some witchers hewing away at one another in the training grounds, but most of the people he saw wandering around looked to be human based on clothing and body posture. The witchers walked like a threat, a confident promise of violence answered with overwhelming force. It was visible, even at this distance.

Jaskier could see well past the battlements, looking over the keep and into the surrounding mountainside. It was beautiful. The peaks of the nearby mountains were still dusted white, with green firs and evergreens dotting the slopes. He could see a narrow, well-maintained path winding down the mountain towards the south. The sky in Kaer Morhen was a pale cloudless blue, the sun washing out all other colors.

Gwenik let him look his fill.

“It’s truly magnificent,” he said finally. From an architectural perspective, Kate Morhen was without peer.

Pity it was going to be his gaol for the rest of his life, however long that lasted.

There was movement coming from the farthest buildings, a steady stream heading towards the castle keep.

“Looks like it’s almost lunchtime! We really should go now and try to beat the rush. Cook is really good at making sure we all get enough to eat, but a group of witchers can empty a cauldron of bigos faster than Cook can stew it,” Gwenik said, leaning out and grabbing a lead to close the window.

Jaskier did his best not to panic and only started breathing again once the boy was fully inside and the window was closed. It gave him the opening he needed, though.

“I heard witchers could eat a boar down to the marrow in one sitting. Cook must have a hard time feeding all of them, plus the rest of the castle.”

Gwenik shrugged. “It’s easier in the spring and summer, since about a hundred witchers are already out on the path and most of us go to the summer camp soon anyways.” Gwenik made a face. “I hate going to the summer camp, it means sorting wool for weeks.”

“So many gone already! We must have had at least two dozen witchers at the wedding party yesterday, how many more witchers could Kaer Morhen have?” He asked Gwenik as they carefully picked their way back to the doorway.

Gwenik paused on a beam, thinking. “This time of year? Over a hundred, plus the thirty or so grassed boys who haven’t earned their medallion yet. Oh, and there’s the hundred odd boys in training.”

There was not a spymaster on the Continent who would not sell their own grandmother for that information and Gwenik just... casually dropped it into conversation.

A hundred witchers on the path. A bit more than a hundred at Kaer Morhen. And a hundred and thirty or so recruits in training. The kingdoms of the north had fallen to a force that was smaller than four Nilfgaardian centuries. Oxenfurt had more students than Kaer Morhen had witchers.

Any one of Dijkstra’s beggar orphans had a better concept of spycraft and informational control than this child. It was artlessly charming how bad he was at operational security.

Then again, few outsiders made it up to Kaer Morhen. None made it back down again. It wasn’t like Jaskier was going to be able to _leave_ with these fascinating tidbits of information.

Jaskier did his best to keep his jaw from dropping and carried on.

“Ah, but a castle is hardly just its lords and ladies,” Jaskier said knowingly. “Any functioning keep requires dozens of staff to maintain it and give it life.”

Gwenik nodded enthusiastically. “There’s a lot of us! My ma works with the stewards, to make sure we have enough candles and bags of wheat and stuff from the tribute wagons. But sometimes we get really weird gifts. Last week, some merchants from Port Vanis sent the White Wolf a stuffed sea monster from Kovir!”

Well, that answered his questions about how the keep fed itself. Jaskier hummed and made the final hop to the doorway.

“How strange! What did my lord husband end up doing with a sea monster, anyways?”

“Oh, he never looks at that stuff. Mom says that Jan always has to bother Eskel or Vesemir or Rennes about what to do with the weirder tributes. I think they put the sea monster in the storerooms until they figure out what to do with it.”

Jaskier had a brief flash of fellow feeling for the stuffed sea monster, caught and prettied up and sent inland to please a distant Warlord half a continent away only to be put into a room and forgotten.

The walk down was slightly better, as Gwenik chattered on about various odd bits of tribute his mother had sorted in her time at Kaer Morhen and then his hopes for apprenticeship with the fletchers. The uneven stairs were tricky, but Jaskier did his best not to fall on his face. His heart was pounding and he could feel cold sweat trickling down his back.

Somehow, Gwenik managed to time it so they arrived in the foyer along with the rest of the castle. Including his lord husband.

Jaskier managed to spot the Warlord first, bright white hair shining against his dark leathers. His lord husband was tall and broad, but hardly the largest amongst his fellow witchers. Instead, a sense of coiled power and sheer presence made him the center of attention. He watched, as the Warlord almost snapped to attention, pinning Jaskier with those wolf eyes.

Jaskier inclined his head and broke eye contact first, demurely lowering his gaze. All the stories said to not look a wolf in the eyes, lest they see it as a challenge.

The Warlord strode over through the milling crowds. Understandably, no one stood in his way.

“My lord husband,” Jaskier said, dropping into a quarter-bow. He was pretty sure that wasn’t right, but his etiquette tutors all those years ago had never covered the proper formalities for becoming the prince consort to a witcher warlord.

“Husband,” the Warlord rumbled back. There was a long pause. “Gwenik, stop going into the attic storeroom.”

The boy at his side looked deeply unrepentant. “But Prince Julian asked to see my favorite part of the keep! And I wanted to make him feel welcome.”

The Warlord sighed and rubbed at his forehead, instantly transforming from stern military leader to disappointed adult figure. “You’ve already fallen through the ceiling once. There won’t always be a witcher below to catch you.”

Melitele _wept_.

“My lord husband, I truly did not know this area was off bounds,” he said, tone placatingly and apologetic. Servants were whipped for less in Tretogar. “I did ask the lad to see what part of the Kaer he liked best.”

The Warlord waved a hand at the boy. “Go to Big Gwen, he’ll deal with you. Stop climbing around in the crawl spaces, Gwenik, you’re going to get stuck and then we’ll have to get a cat to dig you out.”

“Yes, White Wolf!” Gwenik grinned cheerfully and ran off.

The low grade panic stopped dead in its tracks. Jaskier looked at the Warlord and tried to make sense of things.

The Warlord did not elaborate.

All right then.

“Shall we go to luncheon, my lord husband?” Jaskier asked brightly. His head ached and his chest felt tight and he felt awful, but none of that showed in his voice.

The Warlord offered his arm.

Jaskier took it.

The milling witchers parted round them and they sailed forward with ease. The Warlord said nothing. Jaskier wasn’t sure how to broach any subject, wary of potential pitfalls. He certainly couldn’t use the standard Novigrad conversation opener, ‘have you heard the latest about the Warlord?’.

“The keep is magnificent,” he said after a moment’s pause. He was repeating himself, but people liked it when you complimented their homes. Witchers weren’t that far removed from humanity to not appreciate a bit of honest flattery. “Thank you for allowing the Lady Yennefer and Gwenik to show me around. I can’t say I won’t get lost the first few days, but it’s truly a lovely castle.”

The Warlord hummed.

The dining hall was massive with several long hearths along one side for warmth. The glass windows sparkled in the mid-afternoon light. There were a dozen or so long trestle tables set up. Unlike any other royal hall, there was no dais, no head table.

On a whim, Jaskier craned his head up to look at the ceiling. It was smoke-stained. There was, however, a patch job in the plaster close to the center of the room, roughly the size of a small, adventurous boy. He closed his eyes briefly and did not think about how long the fall would have been.

The room filled quickly, as everyone seemed eager to eat. His stomach was in knots.

To top it all off, Jaskier could feel his nose beginning to run. He pulled out a linen handkerchief, cheerfully and poorly embroidered with yellow flowers by Priscilla. He loved it beyond all measure. “Excuse me, one moment,” Jaskier said, unhooking his arm from the Warlord’s, and then rudely blew his nose.

The Warlord suddenly growled.

Jaskier was very distracted by this noise, but not so distracted that he didn’t notice how his upper lip was wet. He daubed the linen napkin at it, but it came back red.

“Oh, drat.” He daubed at it again, firmer this time.

The warlord froze. It was the stillness of a predator before the hunt, anticipation.

“Not to worry, my lord husband,” Jaskier said, slightly nasally with the linen handkerchief wedged tightly against his nose. “Kaer Morhen is high in the mountains and I tend towards nosebleeds at elevation.”

Lie. His nose only bled when he got into fights.

The Warlord twitched once. “Do you need a healer?”

“No, no. Let us be merry and enjoy our first luncheon together.” Jaskier pulled his lord closer and tugged forwards. They were making a scene. He did not want to make a scene. Or rather, this was not the kind of scene he wanted to make.

The Warlord let himself be pulled.

By now, the hall had filled with chattering witchers and the rest of the keep. Not all would eat luncheon at the same time, but it looked as if most were there together.

Jaskier let the Warlord install him to his left at a long table. It was the side closer to the fires, thankfully. Eskel was on the Warlord’s right. Other witchers settled themselves into place along the tables. There was some order - cat medallions altogether in a clowder; a generation of vipers at another table - but humans mixed freely among them and even some witchers commingling without complaint.

The hall waited quietly for something. It was a soft nod from the Warlord. Apparently, that was it. They responded with hearty grins back and a few ‘White Wolf’s. 

Jaskier stood on more ceremony with his own sisters. At least _they_ were required to say a prayer to Melitele before digging into their food like the proverbial wolves.

The actual wolves (and bears and griffins and manticores and all the rest) had slightly worse table manners. But really, that was the only difference between the two.

The Warlord reached over and started spearing food onto Jaskier’s plate. It was a terrible intimate gesture. Jaskier had seen his own father prepare his mother’s plate maybe twice in their marriage.

The food was much more rustic than anything he’d been served at Tretogar or even his family’s estate in Lettenhove, more like the food he had served at the Rosemary and Thyme. The portions were large. Massive tureens of soup and platters of food were brought in from the kitchens, servers all but groaning under the weight.

“Here.”

Jaskier took the plate (an actual plate, not even a trencher of bread!) from the warlord. He met his lord husband’s golden eyes. 

“My lord husband, you do me great honor with your kindness,” Jaskier said.

The warlord was so pale, which was why Jaskier could see the faint flush as soon as it started. His lord husband looked at him for a long, long moment, before busying himself with his own meal. 

Jaskier looked down. His plate was full of cabbage fried with lardons, stewed broad beans, and several slices of roasted pork loin. The warlord nudged the basket of flatbread towards him. Jaskier took the smallest one on offering and passed the basket on.

The thought of eating food made him nauseous. He forced a spoonful of beans into his mouth all the same, washing it all down with a mug of small beer. 

The witcher to his left was old and gray. The warlord’s hair was white, yes, but he was not old. This witcher was old with years upon him. He had to be important, to be seated at the left hand of the Warlord and only moved for the sake of a consort. Probably. This was a court where the Warlord of the North sat at a trestle table mixed in amongst his men. The White Wolf’s court, as promised, did not stand on much ceremony.

Across from him, a red-headed witcher started telling a story about various happenings around the keep while the Warlord had been away. Jaskier listened absentmindedly, slowly eating lunch one broad bean at a time.

The Warlord listened just as quietly, but his hums and grunts seemed to constitute full participation in the conversation. The red-headed witcher seemed pleased by the warlord’s responses.

The hall around them was quiet at first, as hungry bellies demanded to be fed, but the noise level grew and grew. It was still quieter than any feast hall he’d sat in on, perhaps in deference to their sensitive senses? 

Despite having laid down earlier, Jaskier was exhausted. He smiled when spoken to, but kept his mouth closed. He needed to get the lay of the land before making any waves, so to speak. The noise washed over and around him. Jaskier could hear ringing in his ears.

“Husband?”

The Warlord was speaking to him again. Jaskier turned slowly, trying to focus. It was harder than usual.

“Husband, your nose.” The Warlord gestured, eyes bright and brows furrowed.

Jaskier felt at his upper lip. Another nosebleed. There was more blood this time. He fumbled for his linen handkerchief. 

“Apologies, my lord husband,” he said and did his best to stem the blood flow. Jaskier watched as noses twitched and heads turned, the witchers surrounding him catching the scent of blood. The stories were true, they did have noses as good as bloodhounds. The whole hall was watching at this point, even the humans.

There were too many eyes on him.

Jaskier put his free hand on the Warlord’s arm. “My lord husband, I am not feeling well. May I be excused? I fear I must go lie down.” He felt off, like he was speaking at a great remove. 

The Warlord nodded and rose out of his seat, arms raised out as if to help, but Jaskier had already lurched upright on his own. 

“Many thanks, my lord husband,” he said, and nodded a bow. It was a mistake. Keeping his body upright was becoming something of an issue. “Ah,” he said vaguely.

“Husband, are you all right?”

Was that a hint of concern that Jaskier detected? He blinked slowly. There were more witchers standing now, circling closer like gyrebirds at hunt. Jaskier was too busy feeling nauseous to feel fear. He hummed again.

“Husband?” The Warlord actually sounded worried. “Do you need to sit back down?”

Jaskier took a step. The floor rushed up to meet him, the horizon swinging wildly. His stomach dropped and he pitched forward.

Both the Warlord and his right hand dove to keep him from hitting the stone floor. The sudden movement followed by the consequent save nearly brought up luncheon. Even securely held, the world was spinning.

“I don’t feel good,” Jaskier said, tucking his head against the nearest armored chest. He was pretty sure it was his husband’s. Checking would mean opening his eyes and he really didn’t want to do that.

“Yennefer!”

He could hear the commotion around him, but only faintly, as if it was coming from very far away. Jaskier wasn’t paying attention to anything but his breathing.

A small hand forced his head to move. He opened his eyes. It was the sorceress.

“Dramatic, aren’t we?” She said, hands bright with magic.

“‘m a bard,” Jaskier told her. He nodded. It was not the best idea. “It’s how we are.”

“Geralt, it’s not magical in origin. It’s not poison, either.” Yennefer’s eyebrows were furrowed. “Triss is a better healer than I, she might have a better idea what this is.”

Jaskier could feel his heart pounding, the tempo racing in beyond any of his most energetic jigs. His limbs felt weak and shaky.

“I think I need to lay down,” he said to no one in particular and then his entire worldview wobbled, clutched in a bridal carry against a strong chest. He could see long white hair; it was the Warlord. Jaskier made a confused sound.

“We’re taking you to a healer,” Eskel said. He sounded distant.

The rapid pace and sheer act of movement was deeply upsetting to Jaskier’s stomach and sense of perception, the horizon swinging wildly with every step. He whined once and hid his eyes into the Warlord’s chest.

“‘pologies if I — throw up on — you,” Jaskier gritted out. He’d suffered violent seasickness on his only journey to Skellige by boat. This might have been worse.

Witchers could move fast under ordinary circumstances, doubly so when motivated. The Warlord rushed through his keep, Jaskier clutched tight.

They slowed to a halt. Jaskier waited for his stomach to settle before he opened his eyes again.

“Triss!” The Warlord wasn’t shouting, but it was close.

A gorgeous woman in a beautiful dress came close. She had the perfect symmetry and unnerving presence of a sorceress. “Geralt, what’s wrong?”

“He collapsed in the dining hall,” the Warlord rumbled. “Yennefer says its not poison or magic.”

“His heart started racing and he has an elevated body temperature,” Eskel added.

Jaskier could see the sparks of magic, blooming across his field of vision. He screwed his eyes shut again.

“This wasn’t how I expected to meet your new husband, Geralt,” The sorceress said. “Put him down over there.”

`The Warlord softly laid him down on what had to be some kind of examination table, taking care to cradle Jaskier’s head gently down.

Despite laying down, the world was still violently spinning. He’d had this problem before, but only once in recent years. It had been the afternoon he’d signed the marriage contract and nearly drank the Rosemary and Thyme dry.

Jaskier heard the sorceress move to his side, the sharp clip of her boots on the stone floor. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the magic bloom and sink into his skin, itching faintly in his muscles and bones.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, m’lady sorceress,” Jaskier said, carefully enunciating.

“Triss Merigold, at your service. I specialize in healing.”

He’d not taken any of the electives Oxenfurt offered on sorcery or magic. Anyone with a lick of talent for magic was dragooned off to Aretuza or Ban Ard as soon as it presented, leaving the University with nothing to teach but theory, which was more or less useless for those without the talent. Chaos was chaos, Jaskier assumed, and filled his schedule with more electives about the bardic arts.

“Is it supposed to itch? The magic, I mean.”

“You can feel that? Yes, it does itch for some,” the Lady Merigold said distractedly.

Jaskier shut up. He did not want to distract the sorceress who was magicking all around him and also he wanted to throw up.

The Warlord was pacing up and down the sickroom.

Jaskier closed his eyes again and tried not to vomit.

Maybe a minute later, the tingling faded. 

“Well, you’re not dying,” the sorceress said with good humor. 

The tension broke in the room. The Warlord huffed once. Jaskier cracked an eye open to check and found the white-haired witcher was entirely too close. Exhaustion kept him from startling.

“That’s good,” Jaskier said slowly. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Mountain sickness. It happens sometimes in humans when they portal from one end of the continent to another, especially from the sea-level to a destination in the mountains like Kaer Morhen. Your body is trying to adapt to the environment and failing miserably.”

Lady Merigold wandered over to a workbench and started searching through vials.

At least it wasn’t a curse or poison.

“What can be done?” The Warlord asked, arms folded across his chest.

“I’m prescribing bed rest, lots of fluids, and tinctures of rose root and pomegranate twice daily,” Lady Merigold handed Jaskier a vial. “Go on, drink all of it, I’ll have another ready for you with dinner.”

“That’s it?” He asked, levering himself up carefully. The Warlord was there in a flash to support him upright. Jaskier gave him a crooked, shaky grin and downed the vial in one go.

“Next time, take the path up the mountain,” Lady Merigold advised dryly.

The medicine sat uneasily in his stomach. It wasn’t like he was going to be allowed off the mountain any time soon anyways. Jaskier leaned forward and put his head between his knees.

Someone patted his back awkwardly. It was the Warlord. Jaskier felt the ragged ends of hysteria coming over him and did his best not to succumb.

“Will the Prince be able to portal at all?” Eskel, this time. Jaskier had quite forgotten the Warlord’s right hand man was there.

There was a long pause. 

“Sparingly,” Lady Merigold said slowly, like she was picking her words carefully. “Distance isn’t the issue, but he shouldn’t make elevation jumps. Especially not low to high.”

“Why not?” Jaskier croaked out.

Another long pause. 

“Or your brain will swell, you won’t be able to catch your breath, and you’ll drown from bloody lungs in a matter of hours, Prince Julian,” Lady Merigold said firmly. “Climb the mountain normally or not at all.”

The Warlord’s hand froze on his back.

“Noted,” Jaskier said. “No portals. Got it.”

“Other than that, you’re fine. Sleep the rest of the day off and bed rest for at least two more days after that. I’ll send a vial of medicine along with each meal so you should be well.”

“Many thanks, m’lady Merigold,” he said, looking up to give her a smile. It was somewhat lacking the confidence of his normal grin. 

The Lady Merigold brushed a curl behind an ear. “You are welcome, Prince Julian. Now, Geralt, I think you should take your handsome new husband to bed.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened imperceptibly. 

“To sleep,” The sorceress clarified, laughing. “Prince Julian is not up for anything strenuous right now, Geralt.” 

Jaskier hid his face between his knees again.

“Come on, up you get. You’ll feel better once you’ve had a nap.” The Lady Merigold chivvied him upright and off the examination table.

Jaskier swayed for less than a second before the Warlord was there, supporting him.

It had been a very common theme in their marriage thus far.

“My lord husband, I fear I must beg for your indulgent assistance to my chambers.”

The Warlord said nothing in response, just firmed up his hold and took more of Jaskier’s weight. Melitele, he was strong.

“Thank you again for your kind examination, Lady Merigold.” Jaskier said. 

The pair of them trudged their way out of the bright and cheery healing ward into the rest of the castle. Jaskier blinked at the sudden dimness of the hallway. The Warlord let him acclimate and slowly led him in the right direction.

Eskel drifted behind them silently, keeping pace. It wasn’t difficult.

The healing ward was only a few floors below his own, but the stairs he had huffed up and down earlier seemed as impassible as the mountains themselves. At one juncture, the Warlord stood like a rock for the minutes it took for Jaskier to catch his breath, never once suggesting he submit to being carried again.

It was kinder than he’d expected.

Eventually, they made it to familiar ground. The Warlord opened the door to Jaskier’s suite and paused on the threshold.

What was he waiting for? He owned the North and Jaskier, by conquest and by law. If the Warlord wanted access to his chambers, there was little Jaskier could do about it.

Maybe he was just polite.

“Please, come in,” Jaskier said. They swept across the doorway. Eskel remained outside.

The Warlord supported him right up to the bed and gently let him sit on the edge. Jaskier kicked off his court slippers and watched as the fearsome conqueror of the North messed about with the fire and added a few more logs to the flames. 

Jaskier curled up under the blankets and silken coverlet. The spinning was eased, slightly.

The Warlord went to a wardrobe in the corner and retrieved a thick fur blanket, carefully laying it across the bedspread. He drew the rich damask curtains around the bed, leaving only the side closest to the fire open.

“Humans find the Blue Mountains cold,” the Warlord said awkwardly when he finally met Jaskier’s gaze. He poured a mug of something from a pitcher on the side table and brought both to Jaskier. “Here. Triss said to drink lots of fluids.”

Jaskier took the clay mug. The Warlord’s hands were warm.

He drank. It was water, cool and fresh. Jaskier emptied the mug. 

The Warlord took it back and refilled it, before putting both on the bedside table.

“Do you need anything else before I go, Prince Julian?”

Oh bollocks, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Jaskier,” he said. “Call me Jaskier. I haven’t gone by Julian in over a decade and I’m hardly a prince. I own a bar in Novigrad, for Melitele’s sake.”

“Jaskier,” The Warlord - his husband - burred. Testing the name and finding it to his liking.

Oh. 

Oh _no_. 

Oh, that was worse.

“Sleep well, Jaskier,” the Warlord said, gold eyes glinting with something Jaskier could not name before stalking out of his bedchambers.

From the other room, he could hear the faint thud of the door latch catching.

Jaskier laid down and pulled the thick fur over his head.

Sweet Melitele preserve him. 

He closed his eyes and let the medicine lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me. A lot. I’m not crazy about it, but I wanted to update before the new year and them’s the breaks. (Was that a brief cameo of [Jan the Steward](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24603220)? Yes, yes it was.) I couldn’t fit Ciri in, but I’ve already written her introduction for the next chapter.
> 
> Various points of interest for those interested in my citations:
> 
>   * Bliaut are an excellent, gender-neutral way to show off your wealth in the medieval period. Look at all the folds in my clothing = look at how much *cloth* I can afford. I particularly love [this one](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bliaut#/media/File:Moralia_in_Job_MS_dragonslayer_detail.jpg).
>   * Similarly, glass architecture in the pre-modern era is very, very impressive. Most windows before the 1800s were covered with greased paper/cloth, animal hide, latticed wood, or even thinly sliced animal horn!
>   * My Kaer Morhen is largely based off that one tour I took of Kromberg Castle, in Denmark.
>   * Bigos is game stewed in sauerkraut. It is absolutely delicious and served at Easter and Christmas in modern Poland. It was traditionally served at banquets after hunts to nobility.
>   * [Rapid altitude change](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altitude_sickness) can really fuck you up. (The classic example is flying into a high altitude city or extreme mountain climbing without an acclimation period.) It’s completely treatable by returning to a lower altitude, although we also have medicine if that’s not an option. Bad things happen to your brain/lungs if you do not catch it in time and it is rapidly fatal. While rose root is technically a diuretic and will help flush your system faster, you should probably see a doctor and get a prescription of dexamethasone.
> 

> 
> Also, I want to take the time and give a little extra thanks to every kind commenter! Whenever the motivation is gone, I reread your amazing comments and get a second wind.


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